PROLOGUE: GOLDA
The bruises never show. That’s the thing about Evan—he’s too smart, too careful for that. Police academy training taught him exactly where pressure leaves marks and where it doesn’t. What can be explained away and what can’t.
“It’s not even seven yet,” I say, keeping my voice deliberately light as I pour coffee into his travel mug. “The party doesn’t start until two. We have plenty of time.”
Tyson’s seventh birthday party. Planned for weeks. Invitations sent, cake ordered, deposit paid on the bounce house that’s been all he could talk about for months.
“I told you.” Evan’s voice has that dangerous flatness. The calm before the storm. “I picked up an extra shift.”
“But you promised him.” The words slip out before I can stop them. A mistake. “I mean, he’s been so excited about you being there. Maybe you could come late? Just for an hour?”
He sets his badge on the counter with a deliberate click. “Are you suggesting I put our son’s birthday party above public safety, Golda? Above my responsibility to this community?”
The familiar script. My cue to backpedal, to apologize.
“Of course not.” I busy myself wiping down an already clean countertop. “I just thought?—”
“That’s the problem.” He steps closer, crowding me against the sink. “You’re always thinking. Always planning. Always trying to control everything.”
He isn’t shouting. Evan never shouts. He knows better. The neighbors might hear, someone might question. His eyes are the only thing that give him away, cold and flat while his voice stays perfectly even.
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” He adjusts his holster, a casual reminder of his authority. “I work to provide for this family. To keep this city safe. And what do I ask in return? Just a little respect. A little understanding. Is that really so much?”
The well-worn groove of this conversation feels like quicksand—the more I struggle, the deeper I sink.
“It’s not,” I agree, eyes on the floor. “Tyson will understand.”
“Will he? Or will you make sure he doesn’t?” Evan’s hand comes up, fingers gripping my chin to force my gaze to his. Not hard enough to bruise. Never hard enough to bruise. “What will you tell him, Golda? That Daddy doesn’t care? That Daddy doesn’t love him enough to be here?”
“I would never?—”
“Mommy?” Blythe’s small voice breaks the tension. She stands in the doorway, stuffed penguin clutched to her chest, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Is Daddy mad again?”
Again. The word hangs in the air between us.
Something shifts in Evan’s expression, a flash of genuine discomfort, quickly masked. He releases my chin, steps back. The performance of the perfect father slipping seamlessly into place.
“Not mad, princess.” His smile never reaches his eyes. “Just getting ready for work. Come give Daddy a hug before I go.”
Blythe hesitates, her four-year-old instincts warring with obedience. She takes one small step forward, then stops. “Tyson said we shouldn’t hug you when your face looks scary.”
A heartbeat of silence. Two.
“Did he now?” Evan’s voice goes dangerously soft. “And when did Tyson say that?”
My heart stutters. “Evan?—”
“I asked a question, Golda.” He doesn’t look at me, gaze fixed on our daughter. “When did Tyson say that, Blythe?”
“Yesterday.” Her voice shrinks to a whisper. “When you were yelling about the broken glass.”
The glass. A single tumbler, knocked off the table during dinner. Tyson’s eyes wide with terror as Evan’s mask slipped, just for a moment.
“I see.” Evan checks his watch. “I’m going to be late. We’ll discuss this when I get home.”
We’ll discuss this. The familiar dread coils in my stomach.
